Follies...

Le soleil brille! And then some. Unheard of for a British bank holiday when the unrelenting rain drives the truly determined into cooking their bangers on primus stoves under bus-shelters. I'm going back a bit. And it was my Uncle Roscoe and my cousins who did that. Not our branch.

What does unadulterated sol do to the sun-starved Brit? It turns, Ah, sol! into ar-sol. That's what it does. Most of whom are driving soft-tops. It turns them into eejits, as they say in Glasgow.

We were behind one on Saturday night, on our way home from seeing Sondheim's Follies at The National. Incidentally, a fabulous introduction to Sondheim. Imelda Staunton, Tracie Bennett and Janie Dee were all on sparkling form. Real goosebumps moments. We loved it. Anyway, heady with the joys of Broadway, we hit the high road.

On a balmy summer evening, the soft-top in front of us in the queue to get on the motorway decided to remove his roof, as the lights turned again from green to red. Why you would want to do that on a motorway when your companion has long free-flowing locks is beyond me. Try untangling that coconut matting, lady, when  you get out of the car! Ha! I remember that as a folly of my youth. But as my incensed husband sought to roar after him up the motorway, I attempted to still the not so youthful folly to my right with one of my famous hairy eyeballs.  Which he couldn't see. So we burnt off ahead of them and celebrated the final folly of the evening. What a great day.